It’s Marcus. His hair is tied in a ponytail, and he’s wearing a ratty gray T-shirt covered in oil. I expect him to look like a kidplaying with toys that are too big for him, but he doesn’t. He looks different and serious, older or something.
“Hey,” he says, sliding all the way out. He looks just as surprised to see me as I feel to be here.
Before I can answer, the door of a small office with glass windows opens, and out comes Tommy Riddick, Marcus’s father. I saw him at the hospital the night of Jason’s accident and at the lunch for Jason, but this is the first moment I realize how much older than Jason’s dad he looks, despite being the younger of the Brothers Riddick. He must have heard me come in—they must both have heard me come in—because he calls out a “Hello?” as he shuffles out of the office.
“Hi, Mr.Riddick,” I say.
Marcus gets up. “Dad, it’s okay, I got it.”
“Good man,” Marcus’s dad says, turning around.
Marcus is wiping his hands on a rag, and there’s something perplexing about this idea of Marcus as a good son, a hard worker, someone who has been helping to carry the weight of keeping his father’s garage open. But also, he seems like more than sleepy Marcus Riddick here. Capable and solid and relaxed. He feels like a hot stranger, and I suddenly wish I’d thought to wear something cuter.
“So, hi,” I say turning back to him. “I’m here about the dreams.”
“Really? I thought you might be here aboutLittle Women,” Marcus says with a smirk.
“Oh. I mean, if you wanted to talk about some of the links I sent you…”
“I really don’t,” Marcus says, and he’s giving me a strange look.
“Listen,” I say finally, because this is more than a little awkward.“This whole dream thing is obviously a…very weird thing that happens.”
I have no idea what I’m actually trying to say, and it shows. “I don’t know why it happens the way it does, with it always being my memories and…”
“Was there a point to this?” Marcus whispers, stepping forward till the tips of our shoes are almost touching. For some reason that I’ll never understand, my stomach dips.
You’re beautiful as fuck.
“I’ve never been able to make one happen. Even when I sleep, I have other dreams. Normal dreams, but not likeourdreams.”
“You know, when you phrase it a certain way, Zadie Cartwright, it kind of sounds like you’ve been dreaming about me,” Marcus says, back to being his annoying self.
I roll my eyes. “And let me guess, you…” My voice fades as I catch sight of something behind Marcus. “Holy shit, is this one?”
I’m moving past Marcus to look at the palm-sized bird made out of light brown wood. I can tell that it’s not totally done, with just the basic bird shape and the head recognizable. There are no wings yet, and I can see the start of a tail but not much else. And already it looks incredible.
Marcus seems embarrassed as he comes to where I’m standing. “I just started this one,” he says. He pulls out paper drawings of a bird from a workbench. “This is the template.” He puts one of the drawings over the wood so I can see how it’s starting to take shape from a two-dimensional drawing to a three-dimensional bird.
“This is so cool,” I say, and I’m not sure why I’m whispering. “Can you…do a little bit?”
“It’s really not impressive. Just something to pass the time,” he mumbles. “I just like working with my hands.”
But he picks up one of the knives on the bench. He shaves pieces of wood off the body of the bird, carving until it’s more rounded. His hands work quickly and easily, and then he holds out the knife to me. “Your turn.”
I guffaw. “Yeah, right. I like my fingers, thank you very much.”
“It’s easy,” he says, explaining what a whittling knife is and then showing me more slowly how to carve with it. When he gives me the knife, the handle is warm from his hand. I carefully follow his instructions and am immediately alarmed by how sharp it is.
“Nope,” I say, handing it back. “I don’t want to ruin your masterpiece.”
Marcus grins. “First, not a masterpiece. Second, I have too many of them already. This one can be yours.”
“Do you sell them?”
He nods. “The birds are more for me these days. But I do turtles, fish, mice, mini furniture and sell those. It’s all just a hobby for now, but we’ll see.”
I find myself feeling weirdly sad. Wishing I had something I was indisputably great at. Something that could give me even the slightest hint on what to do with my life.
